


of mists and mellow fruitfulness

by aurilly



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover Pairings, Dimension Travel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5947558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki and Jefferson keep running into one another as they travel between the realms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of mists and mellow fruitfulness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yeomanrand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/gifts).



There is no name for the place between, and it manifests differently each time Loki passes through. Sometimes he steps into a circular room ringed with doors, with a different selection appearing each time he spins around. Other times, he finds himself in an endless forest, dotted with identical ponds, and he must fight the sleepiness that smothers him as he searches for the one he wants. Once, it appears as a subterranean warren, and another time as a crossroads with infinite forks. On still other journeys, he skips through this place completely, directly into the realm he seeks, with only a grey or blue or golden light indicating that there is indeed, and always will be, a space between. 

But whether it is a realm itself, or nothingness, or something else, he does not know and has never been able to ascertain.

Only the Bifrost, so far as he knows, has codified the experience, harnessed the void into regularity. It produces the same purple whirl and swoosh for all visitors and trips, regardless of the point of origin or destination.

Loki has never seen anyone when he passes through. But he has once or twice imagined the swoosh of a coat, the clack of boots striking one another on the ankle, a grunt, a tuneful whistle.

He has always thought it a trick one played on himself—by his eyes in the unclear light and his ears in the oppressive silence. The senses and the heart sometimes find what they long for, even if it is not there. In Loki’s case, it is company.

* * *

It has been over a century since he began skipping through the realms—ever since his and Thor’s visit to the treasure room in Alfheim. Thor was busy boasting about some adventure or other, and everyone was busy gawping at him in open-mouthed, idiotic awe. No one noticed Loki pocketing the two vials of elf dust—one green and one yellow—that he had read about long ago, in a book of children’s myths. 

No one noticed when Loki holed himself up in his rooms for weeks, consulting a stack of books taller than three of Thor, and fashioning the dust into a clumsy but solid form. 

And, even now, no one notices when he leaves—steps right out of the realm. They don’t even notice when his self-imposed quests last days. He goes on secret adventures that rival the ones he shares with Thor and his friends. He explores and he learns and he slowly acquires some of the greatest treasures of the universe, through stratagems, disguises, gambling, outright theft, and semi-honest transactions made with the contents of his thick, royal purse. 

No one notices, and therefore, there is no one to whom he can show the fruits of his labor. He puts everything into a magically locked safe, opening it only it when he needs to feel a bit of victory and uniqueness, no matter how otherwise unacknowledged.

* * *

Loki is on his way back to Asgard from the wild parts of Niflheim, in search of a rare flower he needs for one of his spells. He was unable to procure it, because, after years of preparation, he was informed that a buyer had come to claim it only an hour or so before.

His mood, therefore, is as dark as the cave he just exited. He is in no humour to deal with clumsy oafs who knock his helmet askew. 

But that is exactly what happens while passing through the in-between (today manifesting as an endless expanse of beautiful, elaborate, individually carved stone fountains). Someone slams bodily into him, as though this were a cramped, narrow passage instead of an infinite expanse of nothingness.

(Perhaps the two are more alike than he thought, infinite space curling in on itself in ways that measurable distances cannot.)

The air is here thicker and smokier today, more like swimming than walking. So, it takes time for them to disentangle—for Loki to get his buckle unstuck from what appears to be one of the buttonholes in the man’s long, leather coat. 

There is no sun that he can observe, but a glare obscures his vision. Even so, Loki can make out dark hair coiffed high, eyes as lightly blue as his own, a crooked smile baring slightly uneven teeth. Loki cannot properly see his fellow traveler, but he can hear his sardonic, insulting chuckle.

As much as anyone can move and see in this place, they size one another up, like two fencers daring the other to feint first.

“Nice helmet,” the man says. His voice drips with condescending derision as he climbs into a nearby fountain.

“Gaudy hat,” Loki snits, as he walks by the one he marked earlier as his home one, so that the man will not see where he goes.

Only when he has returned to Asgard does he realize that the clack of boots was the same as the ones he has sometimes heard in his imagination.

Only when he has returned to his rooms does he realize that his favorite timepiece is gone. The man must have picked his pocket during their exchange.

* * *

It happens again, and again, even though they don’t physically run into one another again. Powerful magic artifacts from other realms that Loki has invested significant amounts of time preparing to acquire have been sold or bartered or stolen or (semi)-honestly earned by a man whose description is always the same: dark coat, dark hair coiffed high, a crooked smile, a mocking laugh, eyes like the clearest, most inviting water.

(This last one is described to him by a mixed group of servants, whom Loki encounters giggling amongst themselves, all looking very satisfied, and ignorant that their master in the castle behind them has just lost one of his most prized treasures.)

Loki doesn’t always lose, however. He manages to get his hands on valuable potions and magic mirrors and record books that update themselves. Whenever he returns home from a successful trip, he gloats and imagines his mystery man sick with envy about having come too late or too ill-prepared.

If only Loki could know for certain that he has snatched victory from his adversary’s quick-fingered, grubby hands.

(They must be grubby, Loki decides. Even though a small part of him has to admit that nothing about the rest of him looked grubby. Quite the opposite, really.)

* * *

The hour is late. Loki sneaks through the hallways of the palace, ensuring that none shall discover his prize before he has had a chance to secret it away. 

The door to his chambers shuts behind him, and he stops, because something smells wrong. The wet, sooty scent of the in-between hangs in the air. Here, in his rooms, the most solid of places, such a smell has no place.

“Your brother’s got a better view. You must hate that,” he hears a voice call before he’s passed from the vestibule to his sitting room. 

Loki turns the corner and finds the bane of his existence sitting—nay, sprawling—on his favorite divan. The man has taken the shocking liberty of unbuttoning his dust-covered coat and spreading it all over Loki’s upholstery. His ridiculous hat sits on a valuable pillow that the king of sky elves had bestowed upon Loki with his own hands.

“How did you get in here?” Where Thor’s fists might have clenched, Loki’s fingers flex, in and out, preparing for a battle with weapons no one can see. 

“Don’t waste your energy,” the man says, glancing at Loki’s hands. “I wore a protection spell for this visit that’s sure to block your cutest efforts.”

“Cute?” Loki seethes.

The man sits up, as though marginally amused by Loki’s rage. “Yeah. You’re sort of cute when you’re all worked up like this. Which is lucky for you, since something tells me you get worked up a lot.”

His voice drips with a staggering amount of superciliousness—and Loki _knows_ supercilious, has breathed it out with every exhalation for centuries. Regardless of the warning, he corrals all of his strength and directs a blast of energy at the man.

It deflects off his coat in a flash of green light that dissipates into sparkles. The man doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he smiles ever wider.

Since magic cannot harm him, and his magic is now spent for a time, Loki resorts to pedestrian brute force. He strides across the room, picks the man up by his silly cravat, and shoves him bodily. His head makes a satisfying crack as the back of it hits the wall. Loki keeps him at eye level, which means that his legs wriggle in the three or so inches between his feet and the ground. 

His face is so close that Loki can feel pleasantly warm breaths caress his cheeks. The scent of the in-between is even stronger, stultifying—emanating from his very skin. Loki means to look threatening, but the pants turn less frightened and more… Something else. His tongue peeks out between those bow-like pink lips as he looks at Loki almost lasciviously.

Anyone else would be distracted by such obnoxious effrontery, but Loki resists.

“I have only to call the guards, and you will be caught and executed for daring to intrude upon—”

“Upon your royal highness’s privacy and dignity, yes, yes,” the man says with a bored wave of his hand. “Though, even if I didn’t have the means of getting out of here long before they come, something tells me you aren’t going to call them.”

“And why not? Do you intend to appeal to my sympathies? If so, you will find yourself sorely disappointed.”

“No, I intend to appeal to your self-interest, which, if I have you pegged—and I think I do—is the better bet. Something tells me you don’t want anyone knowing about all this.” He points to the safe, which sits open, with all of Loki’s treasures pouring out of it onto the smooth white floors underneath.

“How did you open that?” Loki asks, aghast. He warded that safe with all manner of spells. It is impossible that anyone could have opened it, and yet…

“I’ll hand it to you—you had a good set-up on that thing. But as good as it is, I’m still a better lock-pick. The name’s Jefferson, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” Loki lies. “The only name I assign to you is ‘thief’.”

“You’re one to talk, especially with that diadem in your pocket. Nice work, incidentally. I spent months preparing for this job, only to find out you’ve gotten there first, yet again. I wondered for awhile if it was different people, because no one could be that good, aside from me, of course. But looking in that safe... It“s been you, every time. How did you get past the dragons today? Whatever you did, it was impressive. They were still out cold when I got there.”

“I cast an ancient sleeping spell,” Loki can’t help but proudly reply. So many of his quests have been secret; this is the first time anyone has asked, the first opportunity he’s had to preen, the first time anyone has ever admired his skill. It is also his first chance to express his own curiosity about the things he has come across in his adventures. “How did you navigate the shifting sands?”

Jefferson brightens, and seems just as pleased to be asked as Loki was, and just as proud of the accomplishment. Perhaps he has no one to discuss his victories with, either. “Piece of a flying carpet.”

“A what?” In his surprise and bafflement, Loki loosens his hold on Jefferson and allows him to settle his feet on the ground. “What’s a carpet?”

“It’s a cloth you put on the floor. What, you’ve never been to a realm where they have carpets?”

“Do carpets always fly, or is that a special property of this one?” Loki asks, trying to hide his ignorance under a sheen of superiority while he pieces together the various bits of information.

“Special one.” Jefferson tilts his head, looking sideways at Loki, like a bird, or a cat, or some other animal that has gotten above itself. “You’ve never heard of a carpet. Which means you’ve never been to… So, what’s your travel mechanism? What kind of portal are you using? Mirror? Knife? Bridge device? I’m guessing it’s elf magic, given the places you seem limited to.”

Loki collects himself, and straightens again after his brief weakness. This man is oddly disarming. He has already distracted Loki from his anger and managed to learn some of his secrets, not to mention having broken into his rooms and safe. He even seems to know more about their shared hobby than Loki does. He is altogether insufferable and fascinating and Loki wants him to leave but he also wants to talk about _everything_. He shifts from foot to foot, with one foot representing anger and the other curiosity. Curiosity almost wins. But then that pink tongue that peeks out again from between Jefferson’s lips and Loki fearfully chooses anger over the other increasingly confusing option.

“I return to my previous question,” he says. “How did you follow me? And what do you want? You will answer me, and then I will have you removed from my presence.”

“Following you was easy. You leave a hell of a trail. Shadows and cut-outs. Your work is clever and solid, and as far as I can tell, you have a way with magic that I've rarely seen, but your passage between the realms is sloppy. Whatever you’re using isn’t very advanced. I could help you with that, you know.”

Loki forces himself not to give into the soothing quality of the flattery, which, despite everything else about this man, does sound sincerely given. “And why would you help me with anything? Me, an obvious rival?”

“You asked what I want. What I want is for us to work together. We would make a good team, and... Well, it might be nice to have company once in awhile. Even company as snotty as you. There’s enough treasure out there for us to find a way to divvy it up, and together we could go for bigger prizes than we can alone. Specifically, there’s an upcoming job on the horizon, an important one, and—”

Loki scoffs. “Work with you? Never in all of eternity. You must be mad.”

Jefferson frowns, in a manner that Loki recognizes from his own life—a dislike of that articular word, a kind of huffing annoyance and frustration.

“I always get my way in the end.”

“Is that a riddle?” Loki asks.

Jefferson finally drops his mask of disaffection and revealing a temper as dry and cutting and petulant as Frigga has oft complained Loki possesses. “What do you think the answer is?” he asks.

“I couldn’t begin to care.”

“Good, because there’s no answer. I’ll be seeing you.”

Jefferson grandly dons the oversized hat that he has held in his hand all this while, makes an ironical bow, and disappears in a whirl of purple.

Loki is left alone in his quiet room, and for the next long while, utterly bored.

No one notices.

* * *

Loki returns to the warm sunshine of Asgard after a week spent in the bountiful but shadowy halls of the dead, where he has just succeeded in acquiring a precious dagger. He has no larger purpose for this trinket, but he hates the warrior who treasured so much that he chose it as the only worldly possession to bring with him into the afterlife. Death is not enough of punishment for having slighted Loki; only loss can begin to heal the wound this man inflicted on his pride.

On his way to his wing of the palace, he passes the entrance to his mother’s chambers. The door is open, and out of the corner of his eye, he happens to see her sitting in stately conference with a stranger.

Except not a stranger.

Of all the insolent cheek.

(Loki is almost impressed. Again.)

He seals the pocket in which the dagger sits with magic before entering.

“Hello, Mother…” he says, with his brightest favorite-son smile. He doesn’t spare a glance for Jefferson on his way to kiss his mother on the cheek.

“You are never this sweet unless you wish to hide something. Where in the realms have you been since yesterday?”

“Oh, nowhere,” he says lightly, hiding the smart that not even she noticed that he has been gone for longer. His eyes are drawn to Jefferson, whose lips play on the line between pursed and wryly smiling.

“Nowhere?” Frigga says. “That must be the truth. For it is the only place even Heimdall could fail to find you. I had him look.”

“He must not have been trying very hard,” Loki says, shrugging off the fact that he had set a spell that would block him from the watchman’s sight.

“Jefferson,” Frigga says, turning to her guest, after a look that says ‘we will discuss this later, young man’. “This is my son, Loki. Loki, this is Jefferson, a noted procurer of rare and valuable artifacts.”

“A thief, you mean,” Loki replies coolly.

“I prefer to call myself an adventurer.”

“Words are malleable things, are they not?”

Frigga looks between them. “Have you two met before?” 

Loki is about to lie, but Jefferson speaks first.

“Once, my queen. Your son came upon me when I had the misfortune of following an unfriendly trail that led me to Asgard. He provided me with hospitality until I was able to make my way onwards again.”

“And you profited from that hospitality. I realized afterwards that he had made off with my favorite watch,” Loki says half-truthfully, for while Jefferson did steal his watch, it was not on that occasion.

“Which I was about to give to your mother to return to you.” Jefferson graciously pulls the watch by its string out of his coat pocket. “I noticed it caught on my button when I returned home. An accident, I assure you.”

Loki snatches it back and turns to Frigga. “Why is he here?”

“There is something we of Asgard need to find and procure, for the surety of the realms. Heimdall assures me that of all the men across the realms, Jefferson is the best man for the assignment.”

“Why not send an army to get it? Why not send father, or an envoy?”

“Unfortunately, not all statesmanship can be handled openly and honestly, a fact you know well. No one can know that we are looking for it, and Jefferson will be well-paid for his discretion.”

“The only language he knows, no doubt.”

“Well, I do admit that gold has a certain poetry to it, more so than any language I have heard,” Jefferson interjects, with a wink at Loki.

Ignoring him, Loki continues, “You cannot trust this… this mercenary stranger. I must insist—”

Frigga smiles slyly. “That you accompany him? What an excellent idea, my love. Thank you volunteering. For this is a mission of greatest importance, and there is no one I trust with it more than my own son. Your talents should be of use without giving away your identity, yes?”

Loki knows better than to cross his mother, so he smiles back, even as he rages inside.

Jefferson bows low. “I would be honored to have your son accompany me. I will wait outside while you converse with him, if you wish.”

Half an hour later, after Frigga has lectured him about disappearing, and about harboring strangers in his rooms, and about befriending mercenaries (despite the fact that she herself is hiring them, which she says is her prerogative as queen, but not his), she tells him everything about this orb she wants them to get—a treasure from the birth of the universe that her spies have heard malfaisants are looking for, to the danger of the entire universe. A treasure that he who understands its power can use to control souls. One of a set of six objects. 

When Loki is finally dismissed, he finds Jefferson still waiting outside, leaning against a pillar with his stupid hat in his stupid not-grubby hands, and his infuriating smile spread wide, wide, too wide on his objectionably handsome face. 

“Well-played,” Loki whispers hotly, pulling him into a private alcove and locking them in a magical screen of invisibility and silence. He steps in close, right into the man’s orbit, and feels even more furious when Jefferson has the insolence to look pleased about it. “What game was that? We would have both been better denying the acquaintance.”

“Sons shouldn’t lie to their mothers,” Jefferson says with a little shrug. “And it got me what I wanted. You’re going to join me on this trip. This is the job I mentioned last time.”

“That can’t be true. This assignment comes from the queen herself.”

“Who do you think set her spies whispering? Who do you think had people recommend yours truly for the job, and made sure I’d be here just as you walked by?” 

Loki groans, for it is a ruse even better-played than one of his own. “But why?”

“Because there’s a man where I come from—name’s Rumpelstiltskin, ‘The Dark One’—who’s looking for it. And he can’t be allowed to have it. That won’t do anybody any good.”

“With a moniker like ‘the Dark One’, this comes as little surprise,” Loki says dryly. 

“I figured it’s better off here, with your parents. Plus, I need your skills to get in. You’re good, really good. And whatever you don’t know, I’ve got a feeling I do. We’d make a great team. I was trying to tell you last time.”

Loki can’t help but feel petted and soothed by this admiration. He tries (and fails) to repress a pleased wriggle and maintain his threatening tone when he asks, “And what is in it for you? I doubt the safety of the realms is of paramount interest to a man like you.”

“You wound me,” Jefferson replies, mocking placing his hand against his chest, and then letting it drift over to Loki’s, suggestively. He stifles a laugh when he feels Loki’s heart thump a little harder under his fingers. “I thought so,” he says softly, surprisingly nicely.

Loki swats the hand away. “I asked you a question. What is your goal in this?”

“The place where it’s hidden is said to also have a powerful summoning charm, which a client of mine has been looking for, and for which he has offered me a very appetizing reward sum. There’s also a set of ancient texts on illusion, which I believe would be of interest to you, you shapeshifting bookworm.”

“How do you know I like books?” Loki assumes Jefferson has learned of his other skills by virtue of their competitive adventures.

“I’ve been in your bedroom, remember?” Jefferson says, in a tone implying that something much more interesting happened on that occasion than Loki remembers. 

Loki can do nothing but admit defeat. He has been outmaneuvered, outmanipulated, and outtalked, all by a strangely compelling stranger who smells of the in-between, who shares his pursuits, and whose eyes twinkle admiringly whenever they light upon Loki.

“Cheer up. I’m excellent company, or so I’ve been told.” Jefferson fishes around in his copious pockets and produces something as green as Loki’s cape, and as succulent-looking as the rarest, ripest fruits of the realm. “Here, have more sweets. Maybe this will put you in a better mood.”

“I haven’t had any at all. I can hardly have _more_ , you idiot,” Loki replies, but he takes it.

“On the contrary, it’s very easy to take _more_ than nothing. We both know this.”

Loki groans again as he bites in. Flavor more delicious than anything he has ever experienced bursts inside his mouth. 

Jefferson, who is still leaning insouciantly against the wall, watches and laughs when Loki’s eyebrows jump in surprise.

“Knew you’d like it,” he says softly. 

“Do you flirt with all your associates?” The question falls from Loki’s lips before he’s had a chance to think about it. It is a miscalculation, he knows. He should not show weakness like this. And the question is too vague, and Jefferson too slippery, to produce the kind of definitive answer he is looking for.

“I don’t know. I’ve never had one before,” Jefferson answers simply, without any sort of undertone, and the honesty of it manages to charm Loki even more. Suddenly, without any warning, he steps forward and presses a warm kiss to Loki’s lips. For half a second, before his brain catches up with him, Loki kisses back, losing himself in the lips he has had such trouble not staring at. His head grows light, but then his senses return, and he takes a dizzy step back.

The kiss leaves Loki feeling unbalanced and unsettled and altogether unwell. He knows not how to react except with bluster.

“You dare to—” He sputters, unable to articulate further.

Jefferson shrugs. “Figured I’d get it out of the way so it isn’t hanging over us during the mission.”

“I loathe you.” But the words lack conviction.

“Sure. Whatever you say. Now come on,” Jefferson says, grabbing Loki by the hand and throwing his hideous hat on the floor, where it begins to spin wildly. “We’ve got an orb to find.”


End file.
